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It’s not fun, and it’s definitely not the release I get when I dance, but I’ve thrown myself into all of it anyway—the hand-to-hand, the various weapons Logan’s made me practice with, the defensive and offensive maneuvers—because it makes me feel powerful. Because Maddoc wants it. And because a part of me will always love it when Logan pushes me.
But thank fuck for a lifetime of athleticism and stamina, because he’s the most demanding, uncompromising teacher in existence. He won’t accept ‘just okay’ ever. I have to be perfect, every fucking time.
The minute I’m on my feet, he shoves me against the wall, no sign of strain on his face as he puts me into a chokehold again, using his greater strength, height, fucking all of it, to totally dominate me.
For a second, I scrabble at his wrist, clawing at it as an instinctual panic sets in despite all our practice.
“Come on, wildcat,” he snaps, the faintest hint of impatience in his tone. “You know what to do. A real attacker would already have choked you out by now.Survive. Then make him pay.”
He’s right. It doesn’t matter how tired I am or how exacting Logan’s requirements are. Panic is no excuse.
I dig deep and move, throwing myself into the motions as the muscle memory he’s trained into me battles with my exhaustion and wins.
Yes, Logan pushes me hard, but I’ve gone at this training even harder. It’s the one thing I can do that makes me feel useful right now, and the only outlet I have for how fucking worried I am the more deeply enmeshed Dante gets inside Austin’s organization.
And I know I’m not the only one. Maddoc and Logan are just as worried as I am, even though they both show it in different ways.
Or, usually,don’tshow it, which is fucking maddening… a fact that I use to fuel my frustration right now, knowing Logan won’t just be able to take it, he’ll praise me for channeling my emotion into pure, physical brutality.
I lift my arm and jab my elbow downward as I twist my upper body, breaking Logan’s hold around my throat and moving immediately into the attack he taught me.
It should work. Itwouldwork if he didn’t already know exactly what I’m about to do since he’s the one who fucking trained me on it.
“Fuck,” I scream, adrenaline surging through me as I kick and claw at him in a frenzy. He doesn’t hold back or make it easy on me, fighting just as dirty as a real attacker would and making it almost impossible for me to break free from him no matter how many times we’ve gone over this fucking move.
It only takes a few seconds for him to have me flat on my back, pinned to the floor and in a position that puts me completely at his mercy.
He springs to his feet and holds out his hand to help me up. “You need to stay focused. Let’s go again.”
I bite my tongue hard enough to taste blood, holding in the rude words that spring to mind.
He’s right. I can get this, and I need to. Life isn’t fucking fair, and if he didn’t go hard at me, I won’t be prepared for it when shit goes down for real.
He slams me against the wall, putting me in a chokehold, and I lift my arm and jab my elbow downward as I twist my upper body, breaking his hold around my throat and—
He slams me back against the wall again. “You’re moving too slowly,” he grunts. “You’re telegraphing every move with your eyes. It will get you killed.”
I pant for breath, staring back at him. Hating him just a little right now.
No, hating him a lot.
“Again,” he demands, his hands going around my neck as he puts me back in a chokehold.
I lean into the pressure, hard enough to cut off most of my air and not giving one single, solitary fuck.
“Fuck… you,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes at him. “I’m not telegraphing. You know because you taught me.”
He blinks. “That’s not true. You—”
I bat his hands away so suddenly that it actually works, slamming my fists into his chest hard enough to make him stumble backward.
The look on his face is almost comically surprised, but something’s snapped inside me. I can’t fucking take this anymore. I’m not amused. I don’t find it touching. I’m pissed the fuck off, growling something at him that even I can’t understand as I launch myself at him, beating at him with my fists, my feet, with no finesse at all and none of the techniques he’s spent so many hours teaching me.
“Wildcat…” he says, sounding almost bewildered as he grabs my wrists and incapacitates me, so damn easily that I feel like a total failure.
I burst into tears, suddenly and without any warning, everything I’ve been trying to hold together for so long spiraling out of control all at once.
“Fuck,” I gasp as if I’m drowning. “Goddammit. I’m so…”
